In Better Days
by Burnedtoasty
Summary: Minutemen ficlets strung together from prompts.
1. Rescue

**Title**: In Better Days  
**Disclaimer**: _I, in no way, shape, manner, or form, own the Watchmen or the characters said comic/ film adaption contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Alan Moore and I do believe DC. No copyright infringement is intended_.  
**Fandom**: Watchmen  
**Characters**: Ursula Zandt (Silhouette), Bill Brady (Dollar Bill), Byron Lewis (Mothman), Eddie Blake (Comedian), Sally "Jupiter" Juspeczyk (Silk Spectre I), Hollis Mason (Nite Owl I) Rolf Müller (Hooded Justice), Nelson Gardner (Captain Metropolis), 'Nurse' ('Dawn' is her given name in the Sourcebook)  
**Continuity**: Comic  
**Warnings**: Will be added in headings to relevant chapters.  
**Summary**: Minutemen ficlets strung together by prompts.  
**Author's** **Note**: Harsh criticism encouraged.

-

**Chapter Title**: Rescue  
**Characters**: Mothman, Dollar Bill, The Comedian, Silk Spectre I  
**Warnings**: None

--

"My God, Byron, you're _adorable_," Sally chirps gleefully, tugging on one wing with friendly affection. Her presence is overwhelming – it always has been, teasing and flirting and loud enough to command the attention of a room, and maybe that's what holds Mothman rooted to the spot. "Just look at that grin!"

"'m just, um, t-thanks, Sally," Byron mumbles, toeing the floor. It isn't the first time he's been cornered like this but it _is_ the first time Sally has done more than wave and move on, and that is enough to make his cheeks flush. Glad for the mask, he shrugs slightly and tries to catch someone's eye; Hollis is across the room – talking to Nelly and Silhouette, too far to save him now, and Bill is God-knows-where.

"And just look at that little _tie_. Byron, you're precious." She sweeps in to loop both arms around his narrow shoulders, giving them a squeeze. She laughs artlessly as she pulls back again, eyes crinkling at either corner in an absolutely hypnotizing way. "Have I ever said that? Probably not. We never talk, really. Here, I'm thirsty, let's get some punch." She smiles, sweet and warm and bright and he nods mutely as she tugs him across the center of the room. The music plays on in the background, loud and jarring but comfortable enough in its own way.

"So, how've you been keeping? I saw you in the papers yesterday, with the cat burglar. God, his face must have been priceless! They said you just dropped straight on him, right out of the sky." She giggles, flashing her million-dollar smile and handing him a cup.

"I—it wasn't anything, really," His hands shake a little when he takes the proffered drink, and their fingertips brush. "It was just a spur of the m-moment… um," She hasn't let go of the little plastic cup yet and _their hands are touching_ and he's not so sure what he's supposed to do now—

"Have I ever told you how cute that stutter is?" She asks, eyelids drooping and at long last letting him take the cup.

_You've never paid me any mind before_, he thinks, but he manages a nervous smile and averts his eyes to take a polite sip of punch. "Well—"

There is sudden weight on his shoulder. The Comedian's smile is wide and easy, the effortless stretch of muscles so long used to the gesture that it means little to nothing at all. "Byron. Bud." He squeezes a bit too hard, and Byron reluctantly lifts his eyes to Eddie's.

"Um, h-hi?"

"What are you two lovebirds up to?" Bryon can feel Eddie's bicep shift as he leans in low, conspiratorially, and smoke drifts lazily down to mouth level, thick and nauseating, and Byron just manages to reel in his gag reflex before he retches all over Sally's nice shoes.

This is not a good place to be. "We're n-not—"

"Oh, Eddie, you're such a tease," Sally laughs over him, lips curving up just a twitch higher than before. She lifts the ladle invitingly, tilting her head aside. "Punch?"

"Nah, doll. What with a long drink like you around."

Byron rolls his eyes almost on instinct, and coughs as the smoke again drifts to his mouth. "I'm just gonna go—"

"Aw, Byron, don't be like that," Eddie shakes him slightly, and Byron's head wobbles from side to side comically, wings shaking. "Not when I just got here. I might get to thinkin' you two were up to something."

Sally shrugs. "I don't see how it would matter to you," She says, and takes a delicate sip of her own punch, watching Eddie over the lip of the cup. "What _happens_ between me and Byron _stays_ between me and Byron."

Byron swallows nervously; he does not want to be between them now, does not want Sally to imply something more than innocence in their relationship (well, mostly, anyways, because despite it all she is drop-dead gorgeous). He reaches up to tentatively pluck at Eddie's sleeve, wanting to duck away but knowing it's useless until the Comedian deems it allowable. "I-I think I'll go see if H-Hollis—"

"See, when you say things like that, well, Sal, I'm an awful jealous guy." Eddie laughs, and Byron's wings shake a little harder.

"What's there to be jealous of? We're all friends here," Sally replies blithely.

"Cozy friends," Eddie practically growls, and Byron is sure there will be bruises in the morning, all for nothing. He stomach flip-flops, and he wants nothing more than for Eddie to just let him go so he can retreat to somewhere less—_awkward_. By Silhouette or Hollis or—

"Hey, Byron," Bill smiles gamely, as he brushes Byron's arm with his own. "Sally, Comedian."

"Hello, Bill," Byron manages, trying very hard to catch the larger man's eye and failing miserably. Beside him, Bill looks rather imposing, all muscle and long legs, his cape draped casually over his broad shoulders. Built like Greek sculpture, and sweet as honey, his smile lopsided in a way that makes Byron's heart skip, just a little.

Byron's wings are vibrating with every tremor that wracks him.

"Listen, can I just borrow Mothman here for a second?" Bill doesn't really wait for an answer, already tugging on Byron's wrist, towing him for the far side of the room. "It'll just be a moment."

"Try to keep him in one piece," Sally says absently, game already forgotten, as she turns back to the table. Eddie's arm slips free, and Byron is all too ready to be dragged off again, half-trotting to keep up with Bill's longer stride.

"Sorry," Bill says, half-under his breath and almost lost in the blaring trumpets of the next track. "I wasn't really sure but you looked kinda—well, sorry."

"Thanks," Byron replies, just as quiet, and adjusts his angle enough to grab onto Bill's fingers with his own.

"No problem." Bill flashes one of his infamous smiles, and squeezes Byron's hand gently. "Rescue missions come with the territory."


	2. Spar

**Chapter** **Title**: Spar  
**Characters**: Mothman, Dollar Bill  
**Warnings**: Extremely mild violence

--

There was a reason the Mothman Kick was infamous. There was a reason and Bill _knew_ it, but it didn't stop him from being surprised when he went sprawling out on his back.

He coughed, tucking his legs to his chest and turning on his side to wheeze. Good God. He'd been hit before, had been taken out once by two quarterbacks charging full tilt – but this, this was just… it felt like the bruising had leeched through all the way to his _spine_.

He vaguely hoped a rib wasn't cracked.

"B-Bill?" Byron trotted up beside him, chewing his lower lip. He scuffled the floor with one foot, looking as contrite as a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He licked his lips – still slightly bruised from where he tripped up earlier, and crashed headfirst into one of H.J.'s dumbbells – and awkwardly offered, "I, uh, are you okay?"

"Hrrgh," he rasped.

"I'm sorry, uh, let me just, erm, sorry," Byron dropped down to his knees beside him, resting a hand consolingly on Bill's shoulder. "I didn't. Uh. Sorry."

He waved at the air with one hand, just wanting to curl up and _die_. Crimony. "'s 'kay," he managed, and had to forcibly restrain himself from chuckling at Byron's relieved expression. No laughing. No laughing until his chest stopped feeling like pulp.

"I'll go get some, uh, some pain pills," Byron said, patting his shoulder lightly before springing to his feet and disappearing to the far side of the training room. There was a general clatter and some muffled words followed by the sound of running water, and suddenly Byron was right back next to him, handing over two wonderful white pills and a glass of only slightly lukewarm water.

He gurgled out a thanks and levered himself up just enough to swallow both gingerly. Byron patted him again, and there they sat for a few long minutes, in companionable – if pained – silence.

At last feeling well enough to turn his head without gagging, Bill blearily looked up at Mothman's face, eyes still red from unwilling tears.

"…'m never sparring with you again."


	3. Soft

**Author's Note**: Again, Sourcebook-taken-as-canon-in-this-context, and apologies if I have made German language fail.

--

Ursula was rather fond of America. In particular, American women.

It was not so much the much trumpeted freedoms the country so often exclaimed, nor was it the boisterous and often immature sentiments of its people. It was not even that she found such a number of women who shared her persuasions – far from it, actually, as more often than not the general feeling was so impressively adamant about such considerations that it was a wonder they did not all somehow end up imploding from sheer effort.

She had had her share of lovers, over the years; a few men, yes, when she was young and when she had sufficient reason to put forth such public personas. But there was something about the naivety of women in this country, some almost indefinable aspect of their personality make-up that made her hands shake, made her lips tingle so sweetly. It was different, in Austria, and in France. Both were appealing, certainly, but the way these girls would stammer, the way they looked away in public – it was new, it was different, and she liked it more than she cared to admit.

She reclined against the headboard of her bed – the private apartment, away from the prying eyes of her compatriots – Dawn's head settled affectionately on her breast, idle fingers toying with the lip of her brassiere. The television, small and flickering, displayed happy, idealized families, ones with sweet caring mothers and sturdy strapping men and bumbling but well-intentioned teenagers and things so far from reality that Ursula wondered how they could stand it. They did not smile so much as grimace appropriately, in her mind, and spoke nothing of what everyone thought of, of the regime and bombs and beaches ruddy and swollen with death.

But Dawn enjoyed it, so she said nothing, merely smoothed her short hair back from her forehead and smiled.

Perhaps Ursula loved her; she had always been good to her paramours, had loved each of them in her own way. And Dawn was sweet, supplicant, eager yet demure and oh so willing. A soft hand in the night. Warm breath on the hollow of her throat as they caught their breath in the moments after. A wrinkled nose when she spoke of politics, and poorly brewed coffee when she stumbled home in the early hours of the morning, still trembling with adrenaline. Such soft lips against her own.

"Dawn," Ursula said, closing her eyes. "Liebste? Are you awake?"

The American sighed, and nuzzled against her a little more firmly, eyelids fluttering. Outside, someone ascended the stairs, two at a time. Ursula waited for them to pass by their door, then smiled at the celluloid people and their simple lives.

In Austria, she might have been dragged out to a camp, to an alleyway, for doing as she did. Here, in America, the most she could expect was a stern look and a few angry words.

In Austria, she would have been killed for this.

And she could not help but think, it would be worth it.


End file.
